


How to be Brave

by Microsaur



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Best Friends, Disease, Dreams, Erik might have some kind of Stockholm Syndrome going on but then Charles has Lima Syndrome so..., Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medieval-ish, Overly self sacrificing characters, Quest, Rescue, whipping boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:32:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Microsaur/pseuds/Microsaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For X-Men Tales, inspired by The Two Princesses of Bamarre.</p>
<p>It starts with the Weakness, that can last anywhere from hours to weeks, next it's the Sleep which always lasts nine days, and then Fever which lasts three. </p>
<p>Erik has twelve days. </p>
<p>Twelve days and then he'll die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to be Brave

**Author's Note:**

> This is, of course, late because I cannot seem to do things in a timely manner ever.
> 
> Thanks to **afrocurl** for her quick beta, and to everyone who ever let me bounce ideas off them!

Each time it happened Charles wished it were to him.

He wished it were his tunic stripped from him; that he was the one to face the pervasive cold brought on by heavy moisture in the air and beaded on the masonry. He wished it were his knees forced to the ground; that he was the one to endure the rough, unyielding scrap of jagged stone. He wished it were his wrists bound by coarse, twined rope; that he was the one to suffer the burn of muscles stretched too far for too long. And with every sharp _crack_ that pierced the wretched silence, Charles wished that it was his flesh split open.

But it wasn’t.

Because it was Erik’s.

It was Erik’s tunic, and Erik’s knees, and Erik’s wrists, and Erik’s muscles. Over and over it was Erik’s skin and never once was it  Charles’. It was Erik’s back latticed with raised marks and now mottled with bruises, and it always would be. Each series of scars served as a reminder to Charles, but he did not need them.

Because he would not break his toys.

Because he would not take food from the kitchens.

Because he would not fail or miss his lessons.

Because he would not leave his chambers after dark.

Because he would not speak out of turn.

Because he would not leave the castle grounds.

Never again.

§

Erik was asleep to Charles’ chagrin, though he supposed he could hardly fault the man. It was a particularly pleasant springtime afternoon: warm but not overly bright and the stone half-wall was cool beneath them and bathed in shade besides. Erik was as close as he ever came to slouching, with his back partially against the column and his head bowed forward. Charles considered nudging the foot Erik had on the ground for balance’s sake, but he knew he would not dare.

Charles had promised long ago that he would not make Erik’s life more difficult.

So he simply smiled and resumed his genealogy reading-- silently this time, aside from the soft rustle of aged parchment. He traced through his linage, and branched into others as the whim struck. Occasionally he let his gaze flicker up from the tome to observe the steady rise and fall of Erik’s chest until he eventually he gave up the farce of reading entirely and set the book aside. Erik rarely allowed himself to indulge in anything so infantile as a nap, which was unfortunate because Charles found he was quite content to watch.  

A gentle breeze passed through, wending through the leaves and brambles and wafting the scent of rosemary over their hideaway; a pleasure garden forgotten and neglected by Regent Kurt. Charles’ father had commissioned it in honor of his birth, a small quiet space, secluded and protected by stone half-walls and columns. His father had told him once that the garden was his first piece of the kingdom to oversee and, so long as he looked after it, it would grow with him.

Charles had provided what care he could after his father’s passing, but there was little a boy could do –prince or not—and so the shrubs had gone untrimmed, the flowers withered, and patches of earth remained barren. Until Charles finally dared to bring Erik into the enclosure.

Erik had been in his twelfth summer and Charles in his ninth, and it had sparked their first fight. Erik had claimed it wasn’t a _real_ garden, not if it didn’t grow food. Erik’s mother’s garden grew food as a proper garden should. Tears had welled in Charles’ eyes, and Erik’s demeanor had shifted quickly. ‘It _could_ be a garden’ he had hastily said, ‘we’ll make it a garden,’ and together they had ventured into the kitchens, stolen a pear and buried the seeds in the ground, just as Erik’s mother had taught him back in his village.

Erik had been in his twelfth summer.

Charles stopped eating pears.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Erik said, which startled Charles and forced him to realize he had been staring at the very pear tree under consideration. He no longer knew whether he wanted it to bear fruit or not.

He turned back to Erik, whose eyes were open and almost green in the sunlight. The relaxed lines of sleep were gone; replaced by familiar stern ones. Charles contemplated the merits of pretending to misunderstand, simply because he had no wish for an argument, but he was too stubborn to let Erik continually abdicate him.

“I was old enough to know better.”

He saw the counterpoint flare in Erik’s eyes, in the set of his jaw, and even if he were blind they had hashed this debate enough times that neither of them needed the other to speak: Erik had been old enough too, Charles was the prince so more was expected of him, what made a prince better than a peasant, nothing it was a merely matter of responsibility…

Erik inhaled deeply and Charles fully expected a tired argument, instead his friend merely exhaled the breath.

“Read to me?”

Charles made a series of faces, most of which involved a great deal of rapidly furrowing and un-furrowing his brow, pursing his lips, and blinking before he managed to collect himself. He shook his head, but a smile was curling his lips and he was reaching for the book.

“Are you sure? It put you to sleep once before.”

“I’m sorry I don’t find it as fascinating as you do,” Erik dryly teased.

Charles opened the book and arched a brow. If Erik had no interest in genealogy Charles had a difficult time deciphering the rationale behind the request, but nonetheless Erik had requested it and Charles had a certain inability in regards to Erik’s requests. Especially if it was something as innocuous as reading aloud. So Charles read to him, his tongue rolling over antiquated names centuries old and describing their physical characteristics and those of their decedents.

When Charles glanced up, Erik was once again asleep.

Charles should have noticed then, but it was such a beautiful day…

Horrible things began with dark and stormy nights not with warm, sunlit afternoons in the garden.


End file.
